Just a memory

I love her with a love neither of us understands. It's an unrelenting, driving thing. How it exists without the object of its affection, I'll never know. She's gone, but my heart keeps loving her. 

I can't explain. All I can say is it seems my heart searched for a woman like her, and when it found her, it didn't want to give her up. To me, she was the model of the perfect woman. I knew I'd never find another like her. Imagine my surprise when the very model of perfection walked back into my life! 

Even though she's gone, my heart agreed to love her. It settled on her with a finality unlike anything I've seen. 

She has moved on. She has left me here to weather the world without her. I don't know where her heart has wandered, but it is not with me. Perhaps it's gone back to a former love, perhaps on to another. Perhaps it's just hurting and waiting and hurting again — by itself, unable to love anyone. 

This love I have for her will be the last love I have for a woman. I told her so, and it remains so. I don't want to love any other woman the rest of my life, even if that means I never embrace another woman. Even though I'll never be with her, our souls wrapped around each other. Even though it may seem sad to someone else, my heart knows it's not sad at all. Loving her is the most perfect thing I've found, and I will keep it.  

Though I love her this way, I would never ask her to return the same. It's clear this love can exist without her accepting or returning it. Where it comes from, I have no clue. It's grown out of me like a viral vine, enveloping me and everything around me, coloring the world with it. 

She's told me she couldn't do it. My heart said I'll do it for both of us. That's wrong, of course, but I know my heart can carry two. 

This love is gentle and calm, and it's unlike anything I've ever felt. Why it persists is less of a question than how it came to be. Such beautiful things don't spring out of such dry, wasted ground. It feels like a gift — as much for me as for her. But she'll never know how much I long and ache and groan for her. She'll never see me hide my face and cry yet again because all I want to do is love her, and it seems like such a simple wish.

So I will love her. I will imbue her sunsets and sunrises, her storms, her quiet breezes with whispers and shouts and color that says, "You are the only one I want — the only one for me." My wish is she may feel it — if only for a moment — and think of me. And remember all the promises I made and the way I looked at her with my aching eyes that couldn't get enough. I may never hold her again, but let her feel me just for a moment. Let her know I will always belong to her and always long to hold her against my chest.

What do you say to a woman like that? Words run out long before the feeling even gets stirred up. I want to tell her she will always be perfect for me. She'll always live inside of me, even if she's just a memory.